


Talk is Cheap

by Shoshanna Gold (shoshannagold)



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-03
Updated: 2009-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-06 14:39:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoshannagold/pseuds/Shoshanna%20Gold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference between ideology and insanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talk is Cheap

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction based on characters in the HBO miniseries.
> 
> HUGE Beta thanks to [](http://grey-bard.livejournal.com/profile)[**grey_bard**](http://grey-bard.livejournal.com/) and [](http://mydocuments.livejournal.com/profile)[**mydocuments**](http://mydocuments.livejournal.com/).

Nate was only half-listening to the discussion in his afternoon seminar, which had devolved into an argument about the legitimacy of the Iraqi occupation. Given that they'd had the exact same argument last week, Nate felt totally justified not devoting his full attention to it, and was making a list of things that he had to get done that night. So it was possible that he'd misheard the question directed his way. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, like you didn't hear me." Monica, a first-year MA student, rolled her eyes. "How many people did you kill in Iraq, Captain Fick? How much of the devastation from which that country will never recover can be laid at your feet?" She stared at him, clearly trying to shame him. Nate felt a white-hot flash of anger, but this wasn't the first time some self-righteous asshole had tried to fuck with him like this. He hadn't taken the bait when it had been a sensationalist journalist from Fleet Street trying to get a good pull-quote, and he wouldn't do it now.

The rest of the class, which had gone silent when Monica had first spoken, seemed to recover from their shock. A dozen angry voices sounded at the same time, as people on both sides of the debate told her to shut up.

Dr. Moriarty spoke over the fray. "Monica, I won't have you slander another student in my class. I think you should leave us for the day and consider what kind of career you want to have at this school." She looked at Nate apologetically. "Nathaniel, I'm -"

He nodded but cut her off before she could apologize for something that wasn't really her fault, addressing himself instead to the girl, who was gathering her books. "Monica." She looked up, smirking. Clearly she expected to have rattled him, and thought he'd be falling over in a rush to defend himself. "I did my job, and I won't ever demean my actions, or the actions of every American in uniform, by justifying that to you." He deliberately slipped into the voice he'd used commanding his platoon through combat. "Don't start a debate when you don't know what the hell you're talking about, because you'll lose every time."

She glared at him, and he looked back at like she was lower than an insect he hadn't even noticed stepping on. He'd stolen the expression from Brad, and it was highly effective. Her gaze wavered, and she looked uncertainly at Dr. Moriarty, who waved a clear dismissal at her. She slammed the door on her way out, an act that further indicated to Nate what a child she still was. Still, he hoped she desisted, because while he didn't want this particular fight, he certainly wouldn't lose, if it came to that.

*

By the next week, he'd all but forgotten that moment in class, his head caught up with papers that were due; a CNN round table approaching; making the _New York Times_ bestsellers list; and Brad's homecoming from Afghanistan, his exchange with the Royal Marines finally over. He'd been given permission to extend it by two months to stay with his company on a tour in Afghanistan, and Nate hadn't really minded, because Brad was finally getting to be a genuine Recon Marine again, climbing mountains under the cover of night, skulking through caves after bad guys, and his emails, few and far between that they were, were vibrant with his happiness.

He was thrilled about the _ New York Times_ list, relieved and excited and moved that his book had touched people like that, but the thought of his upcoming weekend trip to Newport Beach overshadowed everything. It had been a long seven months: sporadic contact; nights spent staring at the ceiling, worrying about things he couldn't stop if he tried; his pulse double-timing every time his caller id showed a California area code, a reflexive dread that every call could be _that_ call, because of course there wouldn't be an officer with a grave face showing up on his doorstep, or at least not one officially sanctioned by the USMC. It had been a longer two years, and though Oceanside was almost as far as Plymouth, knowing that they'd be on the same land mass again was enough for Nate. For the time-being, anyway.

Wednesday, he had a lunch meeting with the Harvard Marines. He was walking back to HKS with Keith Solcheck, an enlisted Recon Marine out of Camp Lejeune, when they saw the demonstration on the snow-covered green in front of Littauer, fifty-odd students waving signs and chanting, another hundred or so gathered around them. When Nate got closer he was surprised to hear the crowd jeering and insulting the demonstrators. Campus police were converging on the crowd, also an anomaly on a school that respected peaceful protest, but one that Nate understood when he read the signs being brandished: "Baby killers BE GONE" and "Why Aren't You in Gitmo?" Others bore images so ugly Nate felt anger like he hadn't since Iraq: Marines crucifying Arabs; bearing swastikas on their uniform; bayoneting babies; and one with a Marine standing tall and proud in the desert, bodies strewn around him. The last looked familiar and he realized it was a doctored picture of him, taken from Evan's book.

In the middle of the fray stood Monica. She saw him at the same time that he saw her, and she raised the megaphone she was holding. "Fick" was all she yelled, and Nate was trying to understand what that could mean when the circle of protesters broke ranks and converged upon him and Keith. "Motherfuckers," Keith said. "Where the fuck is my M16 when I really need to kill some assholes?"

They exchanged a grim look, and Nate said, "Stay frosty," the words falling off his tongue before he even thought about it. Keith nodded and they kept walking, heads held high, as the protesters formed a circle around them, their chant cut down to one word. _KILLER, KILLER, KILLER!_

*

Some enterprising fucker from the _Crimson_ sold photos of the protest to the _Globe_ and the image of Nate and Keith surrounded by protesters went national the day after the protest. The success of Evan's and his books gave the story legs, and because Nate had no luck at all, it was a slow news day. _USA Today_ carried the picture above the fold, headline announcing 'Harvard Not A Haven,' with a detailed article about Nate's military career, his book, his life after the USMC.

He made a deal with an AP reporter to leave his family and friends alone if he went on record. She asked him about the protest: he talked about the conflict between the freedom of speech and the right to privacy, and spoke of the accomplishments of student veterans at Harvard, and around the country. A group calling itself the Students' Organized Resistance Movement – STORM – took credit for the protest, and several inches of newsprint were devoted to their manifesto. Nate was disgusted by how it stole from Howard Zinn, the Weather Underground, and Ghandi, among others. STORM was calling for an end to all 'American mercenary warfare,' and what they lacked in originality was made up by their stupidity and ignorance: their anonymous spokesperson argued against the presence of veterans at colleges like Harvard when they should all be locked up for war crimes. Nate had refused to address those claims at all, not even to deride them, which he badly wanted to do.

His phone started ringing at zero dark-thirty Thursday morning, and he spent an hour reassuring his parents that he was fine. His sisters called after that, and by the time his noon class started, he'd spoken to his entire extended family and every friend who had his current number, and some who didn't. The only reason he went to class after that was to show STORM that they'd accomplished absolutely nothing. Not that he cared, one way or another, what they thought, but his absence could be taken for a victory, and he wouldn't give them that kind of fuel, false though it would be.

After class, he packed a bag and flew to LAX from Logan. On the plane, he relaxed for the first time since the day before, the tension headache that had been a dull ache behind his eyes finally subsiding as he sipped his whiskey and soda, glad to pay through the nose for the heat it spread through his body.

To his surprise, the Colbert family was at his arrival gate, Brad's parents and sisters clearly waiting for Nate. He'd planned to meet them there, but Brad's flight from London didn't come in for another two hours, and he was amazed and warmed all over again by how quickly he'd been welcomed into this family. They took him to dinner at the California Pizza Kitchen, where the server did a double-take when she looked at him but, in true LA fashion, didn't say a word to let him know she recognized him.

Brad's mother caught the look, though. "How are you holding up, Nate?"

"I'm fine. Really." he said, when she looked skeptical. "It's good to be here."

"I expect those idiots will be kicked out?" Brad's father looked fierce.

Nate shook his head. "I don't know yet. There's going to be a formal disciplinary hearing."

"Brad's gonna lose his shit." Sarah, his youngest sister, grinned.

"You think there's a chance he hasn't heard yet?" Nate asked, without any real hope. "This isn't the homecoming I wanted him to have."

Sarah shook her head. "Between the free in-flight newspapers and the gossips who make up First Recon? Not a chance."

"I couldn't get a hold of him, not even to leave a voicemail. He cancelled his UK cell and hasn't reactivated his American one yet. And he's been in the air all day."

"Like Ray Person let anything like that get in his way. Hell, Nate, Brad probably knew before you did."

"The Iceman knows what you're thinking before you do," Meghan intoned seriously, and everybody cracked up.

His sisters were right, Brad did know, zeroing on Nate before he even stepped out of the crowd rushing out of the British Airways terminal. "Were you feeling the need for some attention, sir? There are easier ways than becoming the _New York Times_ cover boy."

"_Sir_." Meghan muttered. "The things I don't want to know about your sex life."

Brad smirked at her. "Sweet revenge for the night I saw you and Justin doing unspeakable things with those pool noodles."

Mrs. Colbert rolled her eyes. "Seven months, and you two don't miss a beat. Shut up, Bradley, and give me a hug."

Once the hugging started it, it was pretty much a free-for-all. Brad's sisters tried to climb up him like he was a tree, and his parents wrapped their arms around all three of their children. Brad had more heart than anybody Nate knew, and whenever Nate saw him with his family, it struck him all over again that Brad loved because he was loved.

"Nate, pull that WASP stick out of your ass and get over here." Brad looked at him over the blond heads surrounding him. "You've been to enough of these to know how this goes."

Before he could say anything, Mrs. Colbert reached out and pulled him in. Nate went, surrendering himself to the warmth of Brad's family.

*

Brad stayed in the pool house when he was with his parents, and Nate was always grateful for the distance from the main house, if only because it cut down on knowing looks from Brad's sisters the next day.

"Details, Nate." Brad said, closing the door behind them. "All the stuff that didn't make it onto the front page. You can start by telling my how Harvard is going to boot those mealy-mouthed, retarded, plagiarising faux-academics who would wouldn't know bravery if it sucked them off."

Nate rolled his eyes. "Let's talk about this later," he said, leaning in for a kiss while he unbuttoned Brad's shirt, sliding his hands underneath once he had it open, Brad warm and solid and _here_.

Brad pulled away a little and looked at him, unhappily. "Nate – " he started, and Nate kissed him again, and then stepped back a little, pulling off his own shirt and shucking his jeans and boxers. He fell down on the bed with his legs open and stroked himself, his cock already hard.

"Are you going to interrogate me or fuck me?"

"Who says I have to choose one or the other?" Brad smirked, but he stripped and climbed on top of Nate. "We're going to talk about this tomorrow," he promised, before he kissed Nate.

Nate had better things to do with his mouth than argue.

*

Nate woke up before Brad the next morning, and decided to steal five minutes to check his email. His sleepy, sated mood disappeared when he clicked on the 'next' button and found himself looking at a news photo of the aftermath of car bombing in Iraq, the road piled with bodies, both Iraqi and American. Fury rushed through him as he read the message below the picture.

_You might be able to live with yourself after committing these atrocities, but Harvard students won't stand by while a killer goes unpunished in our midst._

His first coherent thought was that Monica called him a monster and yet she was part of a group that exploited the death of innocents to advance their decidedly misguided beliefs. Was she even capable of recognizing the sheer hypocrisy at play here?

There was no question the right thing to do was to forward the email to the Dean of Students, add it to the pile of violations that STORM was accumulating. He would, but couldn't bring himself to even acknowledge it at that moment. Nate hadn't gotten where he was by burying his head in the sand, but sound strategy didn't always demand immediate action. This could wait until he was back in Boston, and he could meet with Dean Seward personally. Right now he was in California, in bed, with Brad sleeping beside him. They were supposed to have brunch with the family in an hour or so, but there was time to wake Brad up with a blowjob, and that was clearly much more important than playing Monica's little game. He put the email out of mind for the moment, and set about undertaking his current mission.

*

After brunch, Nate drove them down to Oceanside in Brad's mom's car, while Brad napped in the passenger seat. He managed to wake up for the beach party 1st Recon had thrown to celebrate his return, though Nate noticed he didn't drink much. They could have stayed overnight on any number of couches, but neither of them were inclined to spend the night apart, and Nate had always liked driving at night. It was warm and clear, the moon lit their way, and Brad turned the radio on and sang along to the greatest hits of the '70s. Only his hand resting on Nate's thigh kept Nate from floating back to memories of Iraq for longer than a minute.

"Seems that if you're in need of a good offensive line, all of Pendleton is ready to mount up and storm Harvard Yard on your behalf." Brad said, when the radio station went to commercial.

Nate nodded. "If I hadn't convinced Mike and Doc that I had the equivalent of a company of Marines ready to take up arms if need be, I think they might have commandeered a plane then and there. I'm not entirely sure that Mike won't show up for a 'surprise' visit, regardless."

"Maybe he'll bring Lara. I could do with a good chicken-fried steak, and her ribs are second to none."

Something about the way Brad said that caught Nate's attention. "No reason you can't go down next week and spend a few days with them. She said she'd love to have you."  
"No reason at all," Brad agreed. "Except for the part where I'll be in Cambridge, with you."

His suspicion confirmed, Nate sighed. "Were you planning on telling me that you're coming home with me, or just grabbing the taxi behind me at Logan?"

"You'd have figured it out once I sat down in the seat next to you on the plane."

"I take it you've already got the ticket, then. I don't suppose I can talk you out of this?"

"You can try, but be advised it would a waste of your time, sir. Time that could be spent listening to me tell you all about the lewd acts I'm going to perform on your body once we get home."

Nate refused to be distracted by that. "You're exhausted, Brad. Between Afghanistan and the UK, you've crossed something like seventeen time zones in the last week. Don't you think you should give yourself sometime to acclimate before flying across the country?"

"While your concern is touching, if somewhat transparent, I think we both know that my internal clock is so fucked up it's not going to notice another shift," Brad said wryly. "I'll sleep while you're in class and out doing whatever it is you preppy intelligistas fill your day with. It won't be any different than being here, except I'll get to have mind-blowing sex every night."

Despite himself, Nate liked the idea of knowing that Brad was warm and safe in his bed while Nate was out dealing with all the shit that was bound to come down this week. But – "I can handle this on my own."

Brad rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Christ, I know that. You slay dragons, Nate. I've seen it with my own eyes. I actually booked my ticket before any of those liberal asswipes thought about the stupidest possible way to see exactly how tolerant the FBI is of violations of the Patriot Act. The current sit-rep notwithstanding, it was supposed to be a happy surprise."

Who was he to fight the well-laid plans of the Iceman? "My bed is your bed, then."

Brad smiled at him. "And if I happen to come across some of those whiny guttersnipes in a dark alley while I'm there, so much the better."

*

Trying to unlock the door with a behemoth sucking up a hickey on the back of his neck and groping him though his jeans wasn't the easiest thing, but Nate had a wide and varied skill set, and, more importantly, he was highly motivated. He'd been turned on since somewhere over Kentucky, when Brad had woken up from his nap and decided to entertain himself by trying to convince Nate that they should join the mile-high club, using touch to make his argument. Only the thought of Brad before the Judge Advocate General after they were caught by the flight attendant held Nate back, and now his balls ached from the self-restraint.

But now there was only this door stopping him from pushing Brad down on his bed and fucking his brains out, and the key turned in the lock just as Brad bit down.

He didn't bother turning the lights on, just closed the door behind them and shoved Brad against it, biting him back before kissing him. Brad had his fly down and one hand in Nate's pants in about two seconds flat and Nate lost higher brain function as a warm hand wrapped around his cock.

Right. The bed. It didn't seem worth the effort to detach from Brad to get there, though, and Brad seemed to know what he was thinking, anyway, because he released Nate's dick and started manoeuvring them further into the apartment without breaking their kiss. Nate let himself be guided backwards, intent on getting Brad's jacket off.

He barely registered the crunch of glass on tile beneath his feet, but he stumbled on something as he took a step back, Brad grabbing his arms to stop him from falling.

Nate steadied himself and then reached behind Brad to flip the light switch, turning to see what he'd tripped on.

Jesusfuck.

His living room had been trashed. Books had been thrown from the shelves, the couches bore long, deep gashes with stuffing coming out of them, and the glass on the floor was from pictures that had been knocked off the walls, their frames broken.

"Motherfuckers." Brad breathed out beside him, fury almost taking his voice away. "Goddamn yellow-livered asswipes."

_HOW MANY?_ The words were everywhere Nate looked, spray painted in huge crimson letters, not just once on the walls, but repeatedly, and on the couch, and the carpet, and, Jesus Christ, the _ceiling_.

Nate wanted to throw up. He bent down to pick up the picture of his platoon that lay at his feet in the detritus of a broken frame, glass piercing the images of his Marines, but Brad's hand on his shoulder stopped him. Nate looked up at him, not understanding.

"Don't touch anything," Brad said, taking out his cell phone.

"Who are you calling?" His voice sounded like it was coming from very far away, trying to make its way through the rage and disbelief rushing through him.

"The police."

Of course. Trust Brad to think on his feet in a situation like this. _Situation_. What an innocuous, all-purpose word. The destruction of his home; mortars landing on a village full of women and children, driving into an ambush because of arrogance and stupidity. All situations. And didn't that thought provide some welcome perspective. This was nothing, not when compared to having your house blown up or your children have no place to play but a field of mines." I told the Dean I'd let the University handle STORM," he said slowly, trying to figure out would be the right thing to do.

Brad had been about to dial, but he stopped and at looked at Nate closely. He didn't like what he saw, apparently, because he put a hand on the back of Nate's neck, his first two fingers resting on the pulse in Nate's neck, not even trying to hide that he was taking its measure. He was checking for shock, Nate knew, and he would have resented the implication that he couldn't handle this, but he wasn't entirely sure that Brad wasn't right to be concerned. He felt like he did in a firefight, his brain and his body operating on two different planes, at once distant and incredibly, viscerally present.

It seemed that he wasn't doing too badly, though, because Brad relaxed after a minute, the touch on Nate's neck becoming less clinical and more comforting. "Nate, this is a lot more serious than some pussies burning the flag in front of the library. This is breaking and entering, vandalism, destruction of private property, and probably a dozen other broken laws. Not to mention a very obvious threat against you. There's no way to keep the police out of it, and I could give a flying fuck about what the Harvard dick-suck administrators want. If they're so fucking concerned about their goddamn hallowed reputation, they should try a little harder to keep batshit fucking crazy retards out."

"You're right." Nate took a deep breath. Brad's little speech had cleared his head; let him see the bigger picture once again. "Let me call, though. Why don't you go get a hotel room and I can meet up with you later." The look on Brad's face told him what he thought of that suggestion. Nate shook his head, continuing before Brad could even start. "The police means press, sooner or later, and I don't want you to be dragged into my mess. If the wrong people make the right conclusions about us – I'm not letting this fuck up your life, too."

Brad rolled his eyes. "You're being paranoid. That's understandable, maybe, given that we're surrounded by clear proof that there are some crazy fuckers out there with your name on a bullet, but I think that the focus of the story is going to be on something other than the good buddy you used to serve with who's visiting you for a week. And even if it isn't, I could care less who draws what conclusions. At the risk of sounding completely and totally gay, your mess is my mess." He held out his phone to Nate. "Make the call, Nate."

*

The police came, first a squad car and then a detective team from the Major Crimes Unit as it became clear that this was more than a simple case of breaking and entering. The officer put in charge of the investigation, Lieutenant. O'Connor, was a former Marine, and that might have had something to bear on how quickly and effectively the investigation proceeded. Within 24 hours the entire crime scene had been processed, the evidence showing that the vandalism had been the work of one person. The fingerprints found all over the broken furniture and smashed glass matched Monica's DMV record perfectly, and two weeks after she'd first challenged Nate in class she was arrested and brought up on nine different charges.

The college footed the bill for the hotel Brad had checked them into while Nate had been dealing with the police, and insurance would cover the damage to the house and its contents. He needed new living room furniture, but the room that had taken the most abuse was his bedroom, where Monica had apparently taken a sledgehammer to the walls. Somehow none of his neighbours had thought the sound of a room being destroyed was worth checking in on: the undergrads who lived next door had just thought that Nate had been having a particularly awesome party, one of them telling the police that he'd been pissed he hadn't received an invite. God save him from frat boys.

His insurance agent had given him a list of approved contractors and Nate started calling them Tuesday morning. Brad listened to his first call with a pained look on his face, then called the man back after Nate hung up and had two thousand dollars knocked off the initial quote.

"You just have to speak their language," he said to Nate's interrogative look. "I spent my formative years trailing after my dad at every construction site in Orange County, and I picked up a thing or two."

"Maybe I should just let you take over the repair work," Nate said, not really meaning it.

"Excellent idea," said Brad, nodding. "I'll deal with these crooks and you can go back to class. I'm sure your collegiate brethren are dying to fall at your feet and deny they ever had any sympathy for that pathetic whore's cause."

"It's your vacation, Brad." Nate protested, for all the good it did him. Brad just gave him a look and called another contractor, getting an even lower bid than the first one. Nate surrendered and went to his seminar.

*

"Dude, you're turning into a bigger media slut than Britney Spears." Keith punched him on the shoulder and flopped down into the seat beside him.

"Do you think that means Justin Timberlake is going to ask me to prom?" Nate asked, batting his eyelashes at Keith.

Keith laughed. "Seriously, Nate, you okay? Nobody's heard from you for a couple of days and the _Globe_ story made it seem like you're out on the street because of that psychopath."

"Reports of my homelessness were greatly exaggerated." Nate paused, shooting Keith a grin "I have a great room at the Holiday Inn."

"Shit, man, that bad? We can get a group together, help you clean up." Keith was already pulling out his cell phone, but Nate held a hand up to stop him.

"I appreciate the offer, man, but one of the guys from Bravo is in town. He's pretty much taken over the whole damn mess."

"Fucking officers. Why lift a finger when you can get a grunt to hold it up for you? Probably holds your dick while you piss, too."

Nate grinned. "Only time I can get somebody to fucking touch me,:" he deadpanned, and Keith laughed.

Dr. Moriarity came in then, and Nate settled in for another onerous discussion about the patriarchal attitude of post-industrial nations. It was a welcome break after the last few days, notwithstanding all the time he'd spent with Brad.

*

Keith quietly packed away his things while Dr. Moriarity finished her lecture. Nate tried not to give him too much shit for the standing coffee date he had with his girlfriend every Wednesday afternoon after class. Nate was a bit slower in packing up his belongings, and as a result, he was nearly the last one to leave.

"Nathaniel, could you stay a minute?" Dr. Moriarity stopped him on his way out the door.

Nate's heart skipped a beat. As a life-long honors student and general overachiever, nothing instilled fear in him in quite the same way as being asked to say after class. "Is there a problem, ma'am?"

"I wanted to apologize for – well, for not acting more proactively when Monica attacked you in class."

Nate raised his eyebrows. "I don't think any of this could be considered your fault."

She shook her head. "Nevertheless, I should have followed up with her. In retrospect, her behaviour was blatantly aggressive." She paused. "I've been trying to understand why she targeted you in the manner she did, but I haven't come up with any answers."

Nate had thought about that some, himself, and hadn't drawn any satisfying conclusions, either. He shrugged. "She must be profoundly disturbed. Hopefully she'll get the help she needs."

Dr. Moriarty looked surprised. "That's very generous of you, given the circumstances."

Not really. Monica had been kicked out of Harvard and was facing jail time. She'd be punished enough by the system; he didn't need to exact his own vengeance. "Sticks and stones, ma'am."

She shook her head and smiled at him. "You're a remarkable person, Mr. Fick. We're very fortunate to have you here."

"Thanks. I'm pretty happy to be here, myself."

*

On his way back to the hotel, he considered what he'd said to Dr. Moriarity. It was true; in a few weeks, everything Monica had done would be nothing more than a few lines in a news archive. Apart from forcing him to paint some walls, replace the carpet, and buy a new bed, she hadn't had any permanent impact on his life. And it wasn't like he and Brad weren't going to have a hell of a time breaking in new furniture. He'd even let Brad choose the bed.

In fact, if Brad was done bullying the contractors, they could even start shopping for new stuff tonight. Nate grinned to himself at the thought of Brad in a department store, torturing sales people with his exacting standards, and walked a little faster toward home.


End file.
